


Well, this is awkward

by Xenay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Cutting, Diapers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incontinence, Kidnapping, Nudity, Self-Harm, Sherlock is unstable, Wetting, self hatred, sherlock is incontinent, they are naked, trigger warning, why am I doing this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 10:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18618865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenay/pseuds/Xenay
Summary: Sequel to "Better Safe Than Sorry".Since it was so loved, I decided to write this as well. It's about half the length, sadly, and focusing more on the internal turmoil than the accidents.Heed the tags. This contains self harm.I warned you.Rated Mature for said self harm and nudity.. because the captors are weird and it was convenient for the plot.





	Well, this is awkward

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Better safe than sorry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119345) by [Xenay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenay/pseuds/Xenay). 



> Hey people! It's really nice here in hell! I even had the time to write a sequel. And the devil allowed me to post it - he is really a nice guy, when he isn't trying to kill me. 
> 
> Have fun reading and please heed he tags.

 

 

 

John decided to move back into Baker Street. He had already failed his best friend once, to the point where the detective had tried to take his life through an overdose.

Mary didn't mind. John had told her how close they were, that Sherlock had helped him find back to his life after he was invalided, and that he had to return the favor.

 

And so when Sherlock woke up in morning and went over to the bathroom, he found John occupying it for the same reason Sherlock wanted to go in there.

 

 _Oh dammit John. Stop peeing so loudly._ Sherlock cursed in his mind. He was tempted to do a little dance, he already couldn't stand still and he was fidgeting on his legs.

His friend's stream seemed to go on forever. Sherlock bit his lip.

 

The toilet flushed, and Sherlock was almost relieved. But the door didn't open. And to his horror, he could hear he shower running. _John,god dammit!_

 

Reluctantly he went back into his bedroom. No point in soiling himself right in front of the bathroom door. He decided to lay back on his bed. That position always aggravated it.

 

It wasn't long before his rebellious bladder contracted and just released the morning piss into his protection.

 

It couldn't have lasted more than 6 seconds before it already stopped again. It was so little, yet he couldn't hold it.

 _ **Pathetic**_.

 

Remembering how long John's went on, he felt shame wash over him. He was an adult, with a bladder of a two year old.

 

_**You're such a fucking baby. Pathetic.** _

Sherlock put his head in his hands.

 

There was a knock on his door. "Sherlock? You up, yet?" John called through the door.

 

"Yes." He said back, not caring if John heard him or not.

 

"I'm getting breakfast ready." He heard him say and then retreat from his door.

 

Sherlock sighed. He had to get changed, or he would get nasty rashes. _**Pathetic.**_

 

He left the safety of his room and locked the bathroom door behind him.

 

One thing he probably would never be able to accept and get used to, was the horrible smell of urine whenever he had to change the used 'diapers'.

 

_**So. Fucking. Pathetic.** _

 

He was suddenly mad. Furious, even. At John. Because had John not been here, this would have been avoided.

 

But as fast as it had appeared, was the fury and anger gone again. And instead turned towards himself.

 

_**John is not at fault. YOU could have just held it like normal people! Pathetic excuse for a human!** _

 

His eyes were burning and he felt tears filling his eyes, threatening to flow over.

 

In a desperate attempt at keeping his emotions in check, he scratched with his nails on the other arm in one fast, powerful motion.

 

He had the scratched off skin under his fingernails, and his arm started to redden and tiny drops of blood made an appearance.

 

 

It triggered something.

 

Inside him. Inside his mind palace.

 

A memory.

 

An old habit he had before he started using drugs.

 

He watched his younger self repeatedly slicing his arm with a blade - a scalpel, and the blood running down as he slightly nicked a vein because of his stick-thin arms and stick-figure like body.

 

 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by another knock, this time on the bathroom door. "Sherlock! Breakfast is ready!"

 

Sherlock shook the last remains from the memory from his head. He wouldn't go back to this messy habit, just because everything seemed to fall apart.

 

He wouldn't.

 

 

—

 

 

Two days later he was about to eat his words. The urges were so bad. He was actually fantasizing, picturing how he would cut his skin open.

 

_**You're so pathetic.** _

 

_**Pathetic.** _

 

It was the middle of the night, but he wouldn't catch a whim of sleep like this.

 

_**Pathetic.** _

 

 

—

 

At 2 am he was in the bathroom with one of his scalpels, his right arm bleeding from five fresh, semi-deep cuts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

— A Week Later —

 

_They kept calling him names._

 

John and Sherlock were asked to help on the case with the 'impossible to catch' people, again. Lestrade was at his last resorts, he needed someone who could look into their heads. Figure out where they would strike again.

 

_John had told them, against his will._

 

He had done his part. Ignoring the taunting for the moment.

 

_They had called him **Pathetic**._

 

And so he was in the bathroom at Scotland Yard, with his blade, and an ever growing number of scars on his arm.

 

Every time he wet himself.

 

Every time he almost cried.

 

Every time he did cry.

 

Every time he pretended that he hadn't cried.

 

Every time he felt anger.

 

Every time he felt hatred.

 

Every time he put on a brave face and said he was fine.

 

Every time he disappointed.

 

Every time he was taunted.

 

 

 

_He couldn't **stop**._

 

 

—

 

 

"They will be on King's Road in about two minutes." Sherlock said through his phone.

 

"We'll be there in a bit. Don't do anything without us! You hear me?" Lestrade said.

 

Sherlock hung up.

 

He then heard a THUNK!, John groaning and a THUMP of his friend collapsing.

 

"Jo-!" THUNK!!

 

THUMP.

 

 

—

 

 

When Sherlock woke up he realized four things:

He was naked.

John was with him.

John was also naked.

And apparently their hands were each tied together behind their backs.

 

"Sleepin' Beauty is 'wake!" He heard someone call to the other side of the room. Apparently they were in an old, empty warehouse. Naked.

 

Wait a minute - NAKED?!

 

This meant two things:

He was without protection.

His scars were open for everyone to see.

 

Crap.

 

He didn't remember the last time he was in a bathroom.

 

Double crap.

 

 

He had to focus.

This irritating new 'condition' was seriously interfering with his thought process.

 

John fidgeted next to him.

 

Double tripple crap.

 

 

Focus.

 

He studied the room. It was fairly small for a warehouse, almost completely dark, and he had no idea if it had a working bathroom.

 

FOCUS!!!

 

Okay... let's see. There are three idiots wearing hideous masks over their probably even more ugly faces, and John and him were naked and tied up.

 

There was just the creepy music missing and Sherlock would have felt like in one of those horror flicks that John watched sometimes.

 

John was still moving, right beside him.

 

If they weren't naked, this would be less awkward.

 

They could have at least left him the-

 

"Look boss, the fucking baby is up!"

 

Oh jesus.

 

He wasn't 'sleeping beauty'. They had meant John.

 

He felt slightly insulted by this.

 

Two of the idiots were now standing before them. One of them was presumably the 'boss', and Sherlock guessed it was the one with more muscle.

 

"Had I known you'd come wearing diapers, I would have prepared a bottle and crib! Hahahaha!" They all laughed.

 

Except for John and Sherlock. The detective figured he must be just as bemused about this whole thing as him.

 

He still wondered: what did they need us for?

 

"Well, now that you're both finally awake, let's get to business." The 'boss' said.

 

The others grabbed Sherlock and John under their arms and pulled each to their feet.

 

John was still pretty wobbly on his feet, and Sherlock assumed that they had probably been given something that he was more resistant to, or his faster metabolism had already processed it faster than John.

Either way, the doctor accidentally stumbled - into Sherlock.

 

Again, this probably wouldn't have been so horribly awkward, had they been clothed.

 

And to his further horror, the jostling seemed to have woken his bladder.

 

"Sorry.." John mumbled when he got his footing under control.

 

Sherlock didn't say anything. In fact, he hadn't said a thing since they were here, John realized.

 

And when they were turned to walk into a direction, in a line of Boss, Sherlock, John - each had one of the masked guys holding onto the rope around their hands - John noticed something else. And gasped. But was pushed to keep walking.

 

Sherlock already knew that he was found out.

 

_**Pathetic.** _

 

But first they had to know what these guys wanted with them, and how he and John could escape.

 

As they walked through the room, Sherlocks bladder contracted something fierce, and he stopped dead, leaking a bit.

 

John nearly toppled into him again, and when he noticed why his friend stopped he felt horrible for him.

 

"Keep moving!" The one holding into Sherlock gave him a harsh slap on his back - which was still covered in semi-healed scars from Serbia. It just made him lose more. And he accidentally let out a whimper.

 

_**Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic!** _

 

And because of the ruckus, the boss turned back to them. "Hey! Do you want us to be found?! Playing hansel and gretel or what?!" He yelled at Sherlock and came closer.

 

Too close for John's liking. "Leave him alone! He can't help it! He is incontinent and if you hadn't taken his-" he didn't get any further because his masked guy punched him in the stomach.

"Shut the fuck up!"

 

Sherlock was panicking. He couldn't think. He was a tense bundle of nerves, and John getting hurt because of him just added to his self hatred.

 

He could really use his blade right now.

 

And a fucking toilet.

 

 

"Fine. Go to a corner with him or something." The boss said, with half the anger he previously held.

 

Sherlock's captor pushed him to the other side of the room, and the near constant dripping from his bared genitals was making him more self conscious than he could remember ever feeling.

 

He even felt too embarrassed to let go once they were away from the others. His captor wasn't amused by this. "Well, ge' on wi' it!" He half yelled, half whispered.

 

Sherlock felt his chest heaving with near-hyperventilating breaths and his heart racing in his chest.

 

His captor was done with him and decided it was the best cause of action to knee him in the abdomen.

 

Well, it did the trick. Although horribly painful, it did the trick.

 

He was filled with renewed embarrassment at what must have been the shortest stream in history.

 

Thankfully his captor didn't comment, probably too 'awkward-ed out' to say anything. He just shoved him back to the others and John.

 

"Alright?" John whispered. He had probably heard everything, and Sherlock felt his face heat up. Thankfully it was too dark for others to see.

 

"Fine. You?" He whispered back, remembering the harsh blow he had suffered for standing up for him.

 

John gave a sharp nod.

 

Both were pushed forwards again. "'Nuff chit-chat! Move!" And so they did.

 

Sent by an angel, the doors on the other side were forced open by no other than Lestrade and his team.

"Hands up and weapons down - NOW!" He yelled, and each Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson, including two other officers, were armed with handguns.

 

John bit back a half hearted 'gonna be a bit difficult' and fidgeted with his tied hands again.

 

Their captors were about to make a run for it, when Sherlock saw his chance: he had seen a gun in the back pockets of his captor's pants when they were away from the others. He used a trick to free his hands from the ropes, swiftly grabbed the gun and pointed it at the guys from the side they wanted to run to.

 

"You better stay where you are. I am done with games." He said, in a dark voice that he surprised even himself with.

 

Donovan yelled to his help. "You better listen! He's a psychopath!"

 

Sherlock didn't bother correcting her. In this moment he may as well have been one. A stark naked one. With a slightly  bleeding arm from his re-opened wounds, when he freed his hands from the rope. 

 

John only watched dumbfounded. He probably wondered how he had managed to get out of the rope.

 

—

 

In the end Lestrade finally had his troublemakers.

 

They found their clothes in a small closet and Sherlock took out his scalpel to free John of his ropes. "You do know that the second we get home, that thing is gonna be in the trash?" The doctor said and looked pointedly at his scarred arm.

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

"And the next time you feel like doing this, you'll talk to me." He said with a smile.

 

"Guess I got no other choice, there." Sherlock said, dejectedly.

 

"It's gonna be okay."

John said and pulled him into a hug, skin and all.

"It's all going to be okay."

 

"Can we please just get dressed now?" Sherlock asked.

 

John laughed. And Sherlock smiled.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the ending. I just didn't know how to end it. It was so awkward - like the title says.


End file.
